92
JVYLDER'S HAJVD.
haps, than all the shrewd people that smile at him. He
used to talk to me; but I've lost that — yes— I let him
understand I did not care for it, and so that good influ-'
ence is gone from me — graceless creature. No one
seemed to care, except poor old Tamar, whether I ever
said a prayer, or heard any good thing; and when I was
no more than ten years old, I refused to say my prayers
for her. My poor father. Well, Heaven help us all."
So she stood in the same sad attitude, looking out upon
the shadowy scene, in a forlorn reverie.
Her interview with Dorcas remained on her memory like
an odd, clear, half-horrible dream. What a dazzling pros-
pect it opened for Stanley; what a dreadful one might it
not prepare for Dorcas. What might not arise from such
a situation between Stanley and Mark Wylder, each in
his way a worthy representative of the ill-conditioned and
terrible race whose blood he inherited? Was this doomed
house of Brandon never to know repose or fraternity?
Was it credible? Had it actually occurred, that strange
confession of Dorcas Brandon's?
"What can she see in him? There's nothing remark-
able in Stanley, poor fellow, except his faults. There
are much handsomer men than he, and many as amusing
— and he with no estate."
Rachel was troubled by a sort of fear to-night, and the
low fever of an undefined expectation was upon her. She
turned from the window, intending to write two letters,
which she had owed too long — young lady's letters; and
as she turned, with a start, she saw old Tamar standing
in the door-way, looking at her.
"Tamar!"
"Yes, Miss Rachel."
"Why do you come so softly, Tamar? Do you know,
you frightened me?"